by Larry Brody
NOTE FROM LB
The Navajo Dog is sitting this one out, and my subconscious has replaced magic this time around. Or has it? (Warning: This sucker looks longer than it really is.
A Recurring Dream
A Recurring Dream
I have a recurring dream. I’m a scout
For a tribe of primitives seeking a
New home. Sometimes we’re Celts, sometimes
Native Americans, sometimes even aliens on
Another planet. Always, I’m ahead of the group,
Walking across flat land. Sometimes I reach the
Sea, where a huge rock rears up just offshore.
Sometimes I reach a rocky mesa, or
A grassy plateau. Always, I know that
This tall formation with almost vertical sides
And a smooth, flat top is the place my people
Need. Always, I know that at the top (where
I can’t see) is a stretch of land perfect for our
Crops and our homes.
Always, though, I have to make sure. I start
Climbing, looking for handholds, struggling and
Scraping, tearing my clothing (if I wear any)
And my skin. Always, the top is farther than
It appeared, and I have to climb, and climb,
Growing more and more tired. My cuts throb,
And my muscles ache, but never do I stop,
Or even slow, because I know, by the time
I’m halfway up, that the one I love waits—
Somehow—
Up above. I can’t see her, or hear her,
But I’m certain she’s there, and I know
She’s waiting,
Waiting for me.
I grow weaker, and lose my grip, almost
Falling, then catch myself just in time.
I call out to the one I love,
But she doesn’t reply.
Sometimes at this point in the dream
I turn and look back where I came
From, and when I do, invariably—
Always!—
I fall! I roll head over heels, and
Plummet downward, my stomach
Knotting with fear, and the knowledge of
Certain death. Whenever I fall—
Always!—
I hit the sea, or the ground, with
Enough force to feel my spine snap,
My head crack, and I die.
Above me waits the salvation of my people,
Above me waits my love…but I die.
Sometimes, though, at this point in the dream,
I keep my eyes forward, going onward,
Only onward,
And I stay on the side of the rock.
But even then, no matter how long I keep
Climbing, eventually I wake before
Reaching the top.
Above me waits the salvation of my people,
Above me waits my love… but I wake.
That’s it. That’s my dream. I’ve
Had it for years. Dream books and therapists
Probably can tell me its meaning. All
I need do, I’m sure, is ask.
But to me interpretation is only sometimes,
While—always!—I must climb.
Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.
